


Way Down We Go

by Ragazza_Guasto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Case Fic, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-23
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-05 20:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11586006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragazza_Guasto/pseuds/Ragazza_Guasto
Summary: He glances up at me from under his lashes, looks to the screen, then towards our targets. Something is happening and I’m too slow to figure it out. It’s all happening too fast, everything was fine a minute ago but now…A split second in time, the space between one moment and the next, and everything changes.





	Way Down We Go

**Author's Note:**

> Hello friends, have this smutty, first time, lowkey surveillance case fic. It's piping hot, both in its smuttiness and its newness. Unbeta'd and unbritpicked, mistakes are my own. Also, timeline-wise I have no idea where to place this. Pre-reichenbach? Post-Mary, sans Rosie? Idk. You decide. 
> 
> Enjoy.

_ Case - SH _

 

Stats?

 

_ Surveillance. 3 but has potential - SH  _

 

Where?

 

_ Curzon Aldgate. 14:00 I’ll be out front - SH  _

 

Meet you there

 

I’m a bit early but Sherlock is there already there, pacing the square like a madman. I pay the cabbie and meet him in front of an Indian take-out. It’s been three weeks since our last case and I know he’s taken this one out of sheer boredom. It’s in the way he moves - the pacing, agitated like a tiger in a cage, his lips pursed in annoyance at the world. 

 

I hope the surveillance turns up something good.

 

“John,” he greets me, launching into a summation of the email he’s received. “Carla White, owner of the cinema, says there are two men who meet here once a week around fifteen hundred, no matter the show, to exchange information. Typical shady behavior, wants to know if it’s something to be worried about. Crime bad for business, that sort of thing.”

 

Yep. Definitely desperate. Normally this is the sort of job he’d task out to his homeless network.    

 

“Well, at least we get a show out of it. Which are we seeing?”

 

His brow furrows. “Something to do with space. I didn’t ask and she assumed I already knew.”

 

I’m doing a piss poor job of hiding a smile and he frowns, knowing that I find his lack of knowledge in this area hilarious. I’m really not trying to lord it over him, I’m not, it’s just so funny that he refuses to retain anything to do with current events or pop culture. I do love to jump in and fill in the blanks though. 

 

“Got it. I heard it’s not bad actually, so that’s a plus I guess. Snacks?”

 

“If you must.”

 

He’s going to eat all my popcorn. It’s not a bad deal overall. He’ll observe the targets and deduce their purpose and I’ll get to sit on my arse and watch a film with that leggy ginger I like. Probably not much leg to see, what with the space suits and all. 

 

Sherlock makes eye contact with the owner - at least I assume she’s the owner, she’s not very subtle, throwing us a thumbs up as we leave with our snacks - and we head towards theater three. A 3pm showing, and early at that, the theater is empty, the pre-pre trailers playing to no one. For obvious reasons we take two seats in the back of the theater, directly under the projector. Sherlock flips his coat out behind him like he’s about to perform for the Queen. I secretly hope he sits on a Malteser. 

 

“Did she say when the blokes arrive generally?” I ask to fill the silence. 

 

“Just after the beginning, so they shouldn’t be long now.”

 

I nibble on my popcorn. “If it turns out they’re just undercover Met, can we still stay for the film?”

 

“You can. I could care less.” He leans over and steals a handful from my bucket, the bastard. Now he’s got a mouthful of salt and he’ll be stealing my Coke next. 

 

The trailers begin and he makes snarky comments to each, pointing out the plot holes and endings of two minute long clips. I’m suddenly thankful he hasn’t seen the trailer for this one. Not that he won’t guess the ending in the first five minutes and blurt it out anyway. The lights go down and he pretends I can no longer see him as he steals from my cup. Unbelievable. 

 

Two minutes into the film and he leans over to ask, “Isn’t that the ginger you like?”

 

“I’m surprised you remember that but not the name of the planet they’re flying toward.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

I move my drink to the other cup holder since he’s downed half of the thing before the films properly started. He grunts but is immediately distracted by the doorway to our right opening. A man in a black coat and a cap sits four rows down but far enough to the right that it won’t be hard for him to look over at us. Sherlock stares unabashedly, taking in whatever it is that the man doesn’t know to hide. 

 

I give a quiet, questioning grunt and he gives one back that says not enough data. Another twenty minutes in and the rendezvous partner arrives. Sherlock hmms as if something has caught his attention. I get a good look at the man and even I can see what has him intrigued. It  _ is  _ one of the Met, I recognize him from Cooper’s team, from a case we’d worked a month or so ago. Something to do with embezzling. 

 

“Undercover then?” I whisper. 

 

When Sherlock doesn’t answer I look over at him. His brow is furrowed, not in confusion exactly, more like he’s puzzling out the  _ why  _ of his conclusion. 

 

Something happens then, a flash of movement from the Met officer, and I react instantly. A neuron firing at the speed of light in my brain and my arm is up and around Sherlock’s neck, yanking him down into my lap. After the fact, I tell myself that if we’re still in surveillance-mode, Sherlock must stay hidden; he’s too recognizable. I, on the other hand, am not. Too average. 

 

“What in gods name-”

 

I bend down low enough to hiss, “Shut up.”

 

He struggles and for some reason I clamp down harder on his neck. He’s complaining, quietly, but vehemently. Suddenly it becomes apparent to me that his breath is heating a very specific section of my lap, moistening my jeans in a way that is incredibly distracting. 

 

_ Fuck _

 

“Would you stop it,” I snap. “If we need to follow them out of here, we need to stay hidden. If that officer sees you there’s no way he won’t make you.”

 

“I can’t stay down here for the duration of the film, now can I?”

 

_ Christ no! _ I think, wishing like hell that I could hide the effects of Sherlock bent over my crotch in the near dark, breathing heavy over my cock. 

 

“Just… I don’t know, slump down in your seat or something,” I suggest lamely, letting him go. To my everlasting horror, he doesn’t lift himself back up. He’s tilting his head to stare directly at my erection. My face flames red hot, my pulse dangerously high. “What are you  _ doing _ ?”

 

He glances up at me from under his lashes, looks to the screen, then towards our targets. Something is happening and I’m too slow to figure it out. It’s all happening too fast, everything was fine a minute ago but now…

 

Sherlock makes a noise and then I’m gone, I’ve checked out completely, because he’s rubbing himself over my cock in a manner that is unmistakable. 

 

“Fuck!” I nearly shout. Thank god it’s drowned out by an explosion on screen. 

 

He’s spreading my legs, which I thought had spread pretty far on their own but I guess not. My hands are in his hair, and I don’t know if I should pull him away or push him further down, it’s just instinct at this point to hold on. When he puts his hand on me I nearly buck out of the seat. My head thunks backwards and my eyes clench shut. I can’t feel my toes already, it’s that good. Why is this happening? What the fuck has gotten into him? Never mind that, he’s mouthing at my prick again and I’m seeing stars behind my eyes. I know I’m whimpering, I have to be. 

 

“John,” Sherlock rumbles my name and I nearly come then and there. 

 

I manage to look down and have to swear again at the sight. “Yeah?”

 

“Can I?” He clarifies, unnecessarily, by rubbing his lips over the head of my cock. 

 

“Oh fuck,” I cry out again, clenching his curls in my fist. He likes that, he’s nearly purring against my skin. “Please, of fucking course, yes, please,” I beg. I nearly punch him in the head trying to get to my flies. We’re both working to get my trousers and pants out of the way enough to get my cock out. By the time Sherlock gets his enormous hand around it I’m practically sobbing - one hand back in his curls, the other clenching the armrest for dear life. He gets a great big lungful from the base before sliding his lips up. I’m going to pass out. I know it. 

 

“John.” He doesn’t expound but, fuck, I think it means ‘finally.’ 

 

His lips are wet when they glide over my glans. I’m tearing the cloth off the armrest as he goes down and down and down. All the way to the fucking bottom. I’m in the back of his fucking throat somehow. The movie could be spliced with scenes from ‘The Great Dictator’ and I wouldn’t know. The targets could be blowing each other at this point and I wouldn’t know or care. I grunt a complaint when he comes back up but obviously he needs to breathe. He makes up for the lack of tight, wet, heat with a twisting of his hand.  _ He’s done this before _ , my brain supplies. I’ll parse that information later. I need to focus on not blasting off like a secondary student. Though the setting is apt for that comparison. 

 

Remembering where we are, in public, is the last thing I need. My eyes open on their own and glance over at our targets. They couldn’t care less about us but knowing they could look over at any second and see Sherlock’s head bobbing in my lap sets fire to my bloodstream and too soon it’s too late.

 

“Fuck, Sherlock, I’m close,” I try to warn him. 

 

He growls deep in his throat, deep where I can feel it and I’m gone. Back bowed, both hands in his hair, pulsing down the back of his throat. I really am sobbing as it feels like my guts are being pulled out in the most fantastic way possible. 

 

He comes up for air like an old school vampire from a fresh victim. It’s dramatic and just like him and I’m suddenly I’m laughing so hard I can’t breathe. He barely gives me a second thought and I’m shocked out of my hysteria by him unzipping his trousers and pulling his cock out. Then and there, he goes about finishing himself off. His technique has me spellbound. He’s smaller than me but fuck it all if he’s not absolutely perfect. He likes to fuck up into his fist and I can’t help but to picture myself in his lap, being fucked into, his skinny hips slamming into me with the precise measurements of a musician.  

 

“Yes,” I hiss as he begins to finish into his hand. “Christ, you’re gorgeous.”

 

He gasps and spills an absurd amount over his cupped hand and onto the floor. It makes sense, I’ve never seen, heard, or found any evidence that he masturbates before, so it stands to reason that it’s a rare occurrence, that he's saved up enough to fill his hand and then some. I can’t look away - his face, his chest heaving, the way his left hand is still clenched onto his thigh. Fucking unbelievable. My cock is hanging out in a public cinema and all I can think is, ‘I still want to climb into his lap.’ 

 

Once the endorphins release their clutch on my nervous system, however, the reality of the situation comes crashing in. We both silently tuck ourselves away, Sherlock wipes his hand off on the seat next to him. Normally, there is no normally in this situation, but I think to myself if this were anyone else I would make a quip about that being a faux pas. I can’t even open my mouth. My jaw throbs from my teeth being clenched. I told him he was gorgeous! What the fuck was I thinking?

 

“We need to follow the other one.”

 

I look at him and then over to our targets. The second man, the Met officer, is gone, leaving the first man. Christ, I hope they didn’t see us. 

 

“Alright,” I agree softly. Business as usual then I suppose?

 

He waits until the man has been gone for a full minute before getting up to follow. And of course I’m right behind him. I just won’t think about it. We’ll focus on the case and then we’ll go home and talk about it, or we won’t. Sherlock will probably delete the whole encounter and I’ll be sanctioned for public safety reasons. No big deal. 

 

“I take it he’s not a fellow officer?” I ask as we follow behind the man. 

 

“No, counterfeiter, I just can’t tell if the officer is taking bribes as a way to follow the literal paper trail or if he’s dirty. Normally it’d be an easy deduction but I need to see his base of operations to be sure.” He nods at the bloke we’re tailing. 

 

I nod along and keep my head down. None of it matters. Sherlock will have it solved in under a minute of our destination. I really don’t need to be here, and would bugger off home if I thought the possibility of Sherlock finding trouble without me was slimmer. 

 

But knowing Sherlock’s propensity to find trouble, I follow, pride be damned. 

  
  


***

We get home a scant two hours later. He was right of course, as soon as we reached the counterfeiters office he had it all figured out. A quick text to Lestrade and it was out of our hands. Normally he’d be ranting about how simple and pointless the whole affair was but he’s not. He’s being unnaturally reticent as we make our way into the flat. I think about filling the silence with a quip about Mr Chatterjee being in Mrs Hudson’s good graces once again but it sticks in my throat. It’s deathly quiet, both of us not wanting to be the first to either breach or brush aside the incredible thing that had happened. Sherlock strides over to the desk and casually rakes through the papers there, looking almost exactly the way he did the first time I came to Baker Street. A bit nervous but trying desperately to hide it. 

 

I clear my throat, deciding to be the brave one. “It doesn’t have to mean anything,” I try. 

 

He looks up at me and then back down. “Of course not.”

 

The way he’s avoiding my eyes tells an entirely different story. My hopes, already buoyed by his nervous fidgeting are screaming. He’s posturing up. I can remember the timber of his voice when he’d said my name. He’s been wanting this. Christ, the time we could have saved. 

 

“A random fluke,” I say, taking a few casual steps toward him. “I know you’re still married to your work.”

 

“Yes,” he agrees readily, trying for relief but falling flat. “You know I can’t allow for distractions.”

 

I shake my head, agreeing, still heading slowly towards him. “I would never get between you and the work, Sherlock.”

 

He doesn’t move away but he’d stopped playing at the desk top. “Good, then we’re in agreement.”

 

“Right. This won’t affect our friendship at all.” I hold out my hand for him to shake on it.

 

He stares it down for a second before reacting. 

 

The second his hand is in my grasp I yank him forward and catch the back of his neck in my right hand, pulling him to me. Our lips crash together and immediately we’re snogging like it’s going out of style. He wraps his arms around me and pulls until we’re flat on the desk, pens and papers everywhere. I can’t believe we even tried to ignore this for as long as we had. It’s incendiary. It’s perfect. 

 

“John,” he groans into my mouth, and I translate this to mean, oh my god yes. 

 

It’s only a matter of time and a bit of uncoordinated fumbling before we’ve got our shirts at least mostly unbuttoned. His long fingers dig into my shoulders and hold on. I can’t stop my hands from touching everything, his flat stomach, the knobs of his spine, feeling the pulse throb in his neck. He gasps when I take liberties with his already stiff nipples and I latch onto his throat. He likes it, whatever my feverish brain is doing on autopilot. Meanwhile I’m trying my damndest not to crush him with my pelvis but it’s a close thing. Quite literally, I’m shoving into him with my cock with no precision whatsoever. 

 

“Idiot,” I gasp, “you're such an idiot.” 

 

“You are,” he tries to reply but I shut him up quickly by somehow managing to get my cock pressed up against his. 

 

He makes me hiss when he yanks on my hair but I don't mind the pain. It's grounding. 

 

“I need you to touch me,” Sherlock says, and it sounds like begging. 

 

There’s no need for me to reply, I need only see to the request. His trousers are tricky, fancy buggering clips and ridiculously tiny button and zip have me fumbling but eventually I get him pulled free of them. We both huff at the feeling. He decides to reach for me right after and I suck in my stomach to make it easier for him to reach. I nearly sob with relief when he wraps me up in his grasp again. It’s just as good as the first time, barely three hours ago.

 

“Like this,” he instructs, twisting his hand all the way up and around my crown and down, softer than I usually like, but only briefly. He already knows what I like. I mimic the style and he goes about fucking into my fist like he did to his own at the theater. The feel of it does more for my approaching orgasm than his own fist does. Our knuckles are pressing painfully against each other but I concentrate on his leaking cock in my hand and the way his hips move against me and the way he’s panting like he’s in pain. I’m so in love with this man I could cry at how perfect it is. 

 

“John,” he says my name and I swear it’s brand new, the first time I’ve ever heard it. 

 

“Yes,” I whisper, “I’m here, I’m here. Sherlock.”

 

His whole body tightens up and then lets go. He comes on both of us and that’s all it takes for me. I make an embarrassing amount of noise as I spill directly over the same splatter he’d just made. I collapse against him, feeling the heave of his chest, the pound of his heart as it beats near my ear. For a moment I’m worried he’s going to pull the same horse shit he’d tried before, to ignore everything we’d just done, but then his hand, the clean one, comes up and his fingers run through my hair. The last bit of tension leaves my body and I melt. 

 

“You want this, then?” He eventually asks.

 

I chuckle, giving a small nod, rubbing my forehead against his sternum. 

 

“It’s dangerous. They’ll try to use us against each other more than they do already.”

 

He doesn’t have to clarify who ‘they’ are. Every idiot criminal that’s jammed me into an explosive vest, tied Sherlock to a chair in a warehouse, left us for dead at the banks of the Thames. 

 

“Fuck ‘em,” I mutter. When I look up and meet his eye it’s with every ounce of determination I’ve ever felt. “The only way you’re talking me out of this is by telling me you don’t want it. And you had better mean it.”

 

Sherlock’s face remains passive for a whole three seconds before a slow grin works it’s way out.

 

“That’s what I thought.” I work my way up to standing, straightening myself up as best as possible so my trousers don’t fall down at the very least. “Now, what do you say we get cleaned up, order some take-away, and I’ll let you look at my sperm count under your microscope? Or whatever weird bloody experiment you want to do.”

 

“John,” he breathes, looking at me like I’ve just discovered a new element. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

His hand finds mine and I pull him toward the loo. 

 

“Wait,” he tugs me toward the kitchen instead. “I need to collect the samples before we wash them away.”

 

I laugh so hard that he gets adorably cross while trying to chase the oozing rivets of come on his belly with the glass slide.  _ I love you _ remains locked behind my teeth but damned if it isn’t written all over my face.  Oh, well. Suppose I don't have to hide it anymore. 

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock that's gross. Also how are you gonna tell the difference between John's spunk and your own? Science I guess.
> 
> On [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/artisanbloodbank)? Me too.


End file.
